


In Renewal

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Series: Loyalty [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By DiamondIn Lothlorien emotion defeats all; then it makes them stronger. Part 7 of the tale of Loyalty in the "Hobbits and Men" series.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Sam Gamgee, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: Loyalty [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819990
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	In Renewal

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tolkien; I'm just borrowing them for a little angstfest. No money being made, but maybe a tear or two.  
> Feedback: !!Feedback!!

"Sam! What is--" Frodo's words trailed off as his eyes took in Sam's bedraggled state and the figure of Boromir standing--Sam would have laughed if not for the circumstances--protectively over him, slowly fastening his belt with his sword and horn. Aragorn, following behind Frodo, was brought up short with the sight. His mouth fell partway open, and his eyes narrowed.

"Boromir . . ." Aragorn began, his hand on his blade.

"No sir--not his fault," Sam managed to get out, shaking all over. He was going to be ill. He longed to just run, hide, but he couldn't, not with the vision of Frodo's stricken face before him. Best face up to it now and take the blow as he deserved.

He swallowed and tried but no words would come. "I--I--" Oh maybe it would be better to run, not have to look on those soul-piercing eyes of his master, his love. "--so sorry!" He whimpered, then mercifully the vision of Frodo's eyes were washed away with tears, until Sam couldn't see anything. He staggered, bent nearly double with grief.

Boromir and Frodo both moved at the same time to steady him; he backed away from both, holding out his hands. "No, please," he told them. He didn't deserve any kindness, any concern.

He couldn't do it--couldn't face all three of them, the shock and the scorn they must feel and the terrible pain he so remembered feeling himself. "I'm sorry," he said again, and blindly brushed past them to hurry back towards the pavilion and his bedroll. He'd get his stuff, find somewhere else to sleep. In the morning, he would . . . what? Try to talk to Frodo, tell him he was sorry? Avoid him? Beg him? Sam's head swam until it hurt, until he could see no future ahead. Fear gripped him; he turned a corner and halted, rubbing his face on his sleeve. Would he leave Frodo to complete the quest alone?

No. Of course not.

He continued walking, stubbing his toes on roots and rocks without a care, the vision of the mallorn tree ahead swimming in his vision. What then? Would Frodo even let him near enough to be his protector now?

There was a little hill to descend with small stone steps; Sam stumbled as he came to the bottom of them and fell into a heap. He grabbed his bruised toes and just sat, unable to find the energy to get up again, dissolving into helpless sobs. He heard Frodo come up behind him, but refused to open his eyes to look. Instead he curled into himself, wishing he could die, be struck down like a tree in a lightning storm. He shuddered when Frodo put one hand tentatively on his shoulder.

"I failed you. I strayed," Sam said in a quavering voice, fighting not to lean back against that hand, rub his cheek against it to feel its coolness. Frodo's hands were almost always cold since his wounding. But no--right now it was warm. Sam flinched as it gently caressed his cheek, wiping away the tears. His cheeks were hot, raw. He didn't know if he had any tears left to shed.

Frodo's voice struck to the very core of him. "Oh Sam. Those should have been my words to you. I never knew just how much this would hurt you. I'm so sorry--" his voice broke on the last words and he sat down behind Sam and buried his face into Sam's back, enfolding Sam in his slender arms. Sam could feel his master's tears hot against his neck, damp on his shirt. He found his own tears were far from dried up as he began to weep anew. He had made Frodo cry.

"Sir, please--no. You can't lay blame on yourself for this one. I did it, and what's more, I meant to. I don't deserve no tears--not your tears, beloved. No, you're entirely within your rights to beat me senseless. Or have Strider do it. I wouldn't stop him, neither." Sam leaned forward to stand, to get away from tenderness that was crushing his chest and slicing up his innards, but Frodo held on to him with sudden surprising strength.

Frodo's voice was a mere wisp at the back of Sam's neck, sending shivers down his spine. "Did you just call me 'beloved'?"

Sam frowned. "I did, sir." It had come out as simple as a breath of air. He'd hardly noticed it.

A pale hand pulled Sam's chin around until he was looking into luminous pools of turquoise blue, shimmering with unshed tears. A look of wonder was on Frodo's face. "You've never called me that before. I'm always 'sir'. Beloved Sam."

Sam drew in a sharp breath. Oh yes. The word did indeed have a powerful effect, he was seeing that now. The air seemed to hum with it. "I love you. Always will love you."

Frodo swallowed, pain flashing over his features. "And Boromir?"

"I don't love him" Sam hurried to say. "Don't know why I went to him--I wanted him to hurt me. Don't make no sense, does it?" Sam was cold now; he'd left his cloak back with Boromir and the night was deep around them now, dew beginning to gather in the grass between the stones of the path. His knees stung--must have scraped them in his fall--or other activities.

Frodo somehow sensed how cold he felt, and leaned close to share his warmth. Such a slight thing, Mr. Frodo was--how could he so quietly exude such strength? Sam could suddenly imagine something which he never would have been able to even a few hours ago. Fall back into Frodo's embrace and for once let Frodo be the protector. Surrender himself to Frodo's strength.

Tentatively, stiffly at first, Sam did so--let himself fall back into Frodo's embrace and rest his head on Frodo's chest. He began to relax, let all his weight be supported by his beloved, let himself for once be taken care of. Tension seemed to flow out of him and he nearly felt ready to fall asleep, exhaustion making his limbs heavy, relaxation making his eyes close . . .

A whisper of a kiss was planted on his brow. "Now we are equals," Frodo murmured, rocking him.

Sam looked up at him. "What do you mean?" Frodo's face looked very old suddenly, very wise--more elven than ever. Yet a terrible sadness lay on his brow that Sam wished he could lift away, and replace with the carefree look he had worn in the Shire.

Frodo gave a bitter smile and kissed the side of his face. "You never surrendered fully. You were the servant, but you always had control, in your humble way." He blinked away tears. "Still, I wish we had talked about this rather than--" his eyes drifted up the path, back where they had come from.

"I meant to, sir," Sam said, straightening and pulling away. "I knew I had a problem in Moria, but then things got so hectic, and then--" the image of Gandalf washed over him, still fresh with grief, and he sank back into Frodo's arms. "Oh Frodo, I--I still can't believe he's gone!"

Frodo choked on a sob and clung to him, and they both wept, holding tight to each other. Above them on the path they could hear Boromir's heavy tread and Strider's lighter one, coming towards them. Frodo stood, helping Sam to stand as well, gently brushing him off. He took Sam's hand in both of his and calmly stood waiting while the Men came into view and began descending the stone steps, Strider leading, his face troubled. Boromir paused upon seeing Frodo and Sam glanced over at his master's face. So that was the face of jealousy. And quiet, controlled anger. Sam shivered and tried to pull away, but Frodo held his hand tight, almost painfully so. Meekly, he submitted.

Boromir began to say something, but at the ice in Frodo's gaze, blushed and looked away. Frodo spoke first. "I understand we are all under a lot of emotional toil today with our loss. Grief can make one do things they normally . . . wouldn't. So I'm willing to overlook it. Once."

Strider shifted his weight and looked uncomfortable; Boromir looked up suddenly, fire blazing in his eyes. Before he could make a retort, however, Frodo turned and began pulling Sam to follow, moving in a swift but stately march back to the pavilion. Sam was almost afraid to look at Frodo's face, but when he raised his head long enough to peek, Frodo was looking at him in concern, not anger. He slowed their pace as they drew within sight of their camp. "It won't happen again, will it?" Frodo asked in just a bare whisper, releasing Sam's hand.

"No. Never," Sam said, and knew he meant it. He felt fragile and raw, like a newborn kitten. Frodo was going to give him a second chance, it seemed.

Frodo crossed to their bedrolls but instead of dropping down on them, he began to gather them up in his arms. "Get our things, Sam. We're going to sleep on the other side of this tree." He glanced over to where Merry, Pip and Gimli were sleeping, then back to Sam. "Will you let me make love to you?"

Sam about dropped his pack. "Now?" Before he'd bathed, while he still had the essence of another . . . but surely Frodo wouldn't want him like that--wouldn't want to taint himself with the signs of unfaithfulness.

"If you choose me, then I'm going to claim you. I want to erase all of this." Never had Frodo sounded so dead serious about a thing. It seemed Sam was going to get his punishment after all, but stars! What a punishment. He nodded dumbly.

"Yes. I choose you. Frodo," he said, his mouth feeling odd without the 'Mr.' to go along with his master's name, but somehow he knew now was not the time to use that title.

Very quietly, they gathered up their things, and Sam noted that Frodo waited until Strider and Boromir returned before setting out, nodding to Strider and announcing, "We're going to sleep on the other side. We'll return at daybreak. Good evening." He paused for a moment then added, "Aragorn, thank you for the talk. It helped." Sam couldn't miss the heated look Boromir sent his way as they departed, nor Aragorn's almost unconscious stance in front of the Gondorian, warning him back. Sam was surprised his legs had the strength to carry him to the other side of the massive tree, around hollows created by the roots large enough to stable ponies in, as the events of the evening slowly sank in and made him tremble with delayed exhaustion. They chose one such hollow clear on the other side and Frodo carefully arranged their blankets over a bed of moss and tiny wildflowers. He looked to Sam with expectation.

Sam left the two packs within easy reach, and walked forward into Frodo's arms.

Frodo enveloped him in a fierce hug, pressing his face into Sam's neck and tasting him, softly breathing him in as he lapped slowly up from collarbone to ear, gently nibbling. Thoughts of exhaustion fled--yes, Sam wanted this, gentle and sweet, a calm after the storm. He felt his body responding and simply gave in, rubbing at Frodo's back through the fabric of cloak and weskit and mailshirt--almost as many layers as . . . no. He wouldn't let his mind compare, wouldn't ever think of that again. Frodo. There was only Frodo. Now and forever.

He needed skin--smooth satiny skin. Almost frantically he began unlacing and unbuttoning, working down through the layers as Frodo did the same with him, until they were both naked and falling back into the blankets, limbs entangled, trying desperately to become one flesh, seemingly. Frodo's mouth left his neck and traveled to his mouth to claim it deeply, hungrily, the pressure against his bruised lips a sweet misery, Frodo's hands holding him tight on his hips over the tender areas there too, as if he meant to mark him in his own way. Sam began to make his accustomed path down Frodo's back to cup his buttocks and run his thumbs up the insides of his thighs, but Frodo caught his hands and forced them up over his head, flat against the blankets. Frodo shook his head.

"Lie still," he ordered, again in that deadly calm voice which stilled Sam's heart. Sam moaned, painfully aroused, trembling in mixed fear and anticipation. Frodo released his hands and obediently he kept them in place as Frodo began to lightly trace his skin with his fingertips, down his arms, over his chest, up his thighs, across his belly, just light enough to tantalize, irritate. Sam moaned louder, trying not to squirm, as Frodo inspected him with ruthless care, noting every sign upon his body, every humiliation.

Frodo leaned down, nuzzling his neck, sucking on the muscle of his shoulder. Sam felt his tension dissolving, melting into hot pleasure, sending pulses through him. Then suddenly Frodo bit down. Hard.

Sam cried out and bucked his hips, nearly throwing Frodo off, but he managed to keep his hands locked in place above his head. He whimpered as Frodo kissed the abused spot, making amends. Punishment, yes. He'd deserved that. Now he was truly marked.

Frodo lifted up on his arms a moment, looking down at him with satisfaction, lust. "You like that? You want me to be rough, to hurt you a little? Shall I mark you a little more, Sam, so you know who you belong to?"

Sam could only nod, then groan in pleasure as Frodo scraped his teeth in a path from his shoulder to his nipple to again bite hard, hard enough to bruise around the nipple before gently sucking on it to soothe away the pain. Sam's breath was coming out in soft pants, oh he was enjoying this far too much, bless him! Whatever was wrong with him, anyway? No decent hobbit enjoyed being hurt. But if it made Frodo happy, if it made things right between them . . . he moaned as Frodo moved down to the insides of his knees and nibbled gently on them, working his way up. How far was this punishment going to go, he wondered. He was in a state as he'd never been in before.

Frodo bit him once more, on the top of his thigh, but it was a much more tender bite, purely to mark, not to hurt, then Frodo was digging into his pack for the chamomile oil, not having touched the area that most needed attention. Oh yes, punishment. He longed to pull Frodo down beneath him, bury himself in that slender body, but no, he would be good. He'd prove he was Frodo's once and for all. The thought made him shiver with delight.

Frodo hovered above him on all fours, his hard cock just brushing Sam's stomach, spreading moisture there, his eyes burning into Sam with something wild and wicked . . . and pleading. "Do you want me? Do you need me, Sam?"

Sam couldn't hold back his arms at such a question--he ran his calloused thumbs over Frodo's nipples, making them taut, then up his collarbone to his neck, ruffling his hair, "Oh yes, mm--Frodo. Flowers can't need sun more'n I need you. Beloved . . . beloved master . . ." He lost track of anything beyond that, as Frodo thrust against them, sliding their cocks against each other in dizzying sensation that was sending Sam to the brink. He closed his eyes, shuddering, but quickly Frodo moved away, leaving only air to touch his skin. He groaned, ready to spit curses. Enough punishment already.

Suddenly Frodo's fingers were in him, spreading the oil. He hissed in pain, writhing as his master readied him, massaging flesh that was already sore and inflamed. "I'm sorry, Sam, I really am, but I do need to do this. I hope you'll forgive me," Frodo said in a voice tightened by pain of an altogether other sort. Yes, he had hurt him. It was not time for the end of punishment yet.

Sam forced himself to relax. "Yes," he said, telling Frodo it was all right; there was nothing to forgive. "Oh yesss," he sighed, as Frodo's hand inadvertently brushed his painfully hard cock.

Relaxing with Frodo was easier, despite his ravaged entrance, once he set his mind to it--all he had to do was open his eyes and lay back, watching the intent look on Frodo's face and the incredible sight of his pale flesh by the moonlight and elven lights dangling from branches high above, making him seem to glow with passion, need. Frodo's long slender member was creating a little puddle of precum on his thigh, and the sight made Sam's throat ache to taste of him. Tomorrow, he vowed. In the morning.

Before he even realized it, Frodo was up to three, and the pain was less, not more. Nodding, satisfied, Frodo wasted no more time but crawled forward to press into him, slowly, gently, kissing his hair, his eyes, his cheeks, whispering, "Let me in, Sam, let me in," in a litany, and Sam did; it was so easy. There was no pain at all. Frodo shuddered and gasped as he sank all the way in, then experimented with Sam's readiness, pulling out just a little then back in, then a little more out, and in, and when Sam did not tighten in pain but rather wrapped his arms around his master, urging him on, he began to move further out, and deeper in, rocking into Sam and groaning with each thrust, his small hands clenching into Sam's bottom. More marks, Sam thought with triumph, and wrapped his legs around Frodo to urge him to plunge even harder, faster--oh, that burning, pain/pleasure was back, and that sweet spot too, and he was fast losing it--

"Frodo--mine!" Sam shouted as he came, and afterwards he wasn't quite clear on why he'd shouted that, but it somehow seemed appropriate. He was Frodo's and Frodo was his, and nothing was ever going to tear them apart again. Lost in the pleasure, though, he only knew that they'd found oneness, that completion that had come with their first kiss, and when Frodo screamed out his name and came inside, he wept; this time tears of joy.

After they'd recovered a few minutes, Frodo kissed him and felt around for a handkerchief to wipe his tears. "Your poor cheeks must be burning by now, dear Sam!"

"Which ones?" Sam asked, then laughed as he realized he was being stupid again. Frodo giggled and rested on top of him with his head on Sam's chest, his dark curls tickling Sam's nose.

"We'll have to ask the elves for a nice hot bath for you in the morning," Frodo said, then yawned hugely. Sam reached over for a blanket to pull over them both.

"Yes, sir. That ought to do nicely for me. I've thought of something I'd like to ask for in the morning too, from you." Now that he was claimed again, he let his hands glide down Frodo's back to cup his wonderful round bottom, rubbing the satin skin. Frodo all but purred.

"Hmm, maybe I prefer to be on top," Frodo mumbled.

Sam chuckled. "Oh that we can take turns, I'm thinking. No, I just want a drink of something in the morning. Something 'masterful', if you take my meaning."

Sam could feel Frodo smiling against his chest. "Mmm. I like the sound of that."

"I love you, beloved master."

"I love you too, Sam."


End file.
